Stage 4 - Depression
Buffy
It was raining; a staccato tattoo of raindrops on the glass roof above her head. Cocooned in a blanket against the morning chill, she watched the water pool and trickle on the sloping glass as the hesitant grey light strengthened towards uncertain day. The rain increased with the daylight to a steady downpour that filmed the windows and smeared the view of the autumn-dreary garden, blurring the image of the few remaining blood-red, wearily drooping roses tossed by the strengthening wind. In the disorder of the tiny glass room Giles called his ‘conservatory’, she sat alone, silent among the remains of long desiccated plants and the bodies of the faded summer’s insect visitors. The conservatory, looking out over the small, wall-enclosed garden, was rarely used by the others in the too crowded house. She could escape here – escape the well-meaning words, the constant nervous glances and the anxious sympathy. It had become her algae-greened refuge from the disorder of the day, her shadow-dark asylum during the long loneliness of the night.
At night she lights a candle, places it on the window ledge and watches its flame dip and dance in the small air movements. Focussed on its brightness reflected in the night-black glass, her mind can empty to blessed silence. She can… not think. Just be. And that helps.
She heard Giles come down the stairs, heard him hover hesitantly at the entrance to the room leading to the conservatory, heard his suddenly purposeful steps toward her. She closed her eyes briefly and looked up at him with a small smile. “Hey,” she said softly.
Giles stood next to her awkwardly. “Good morning. You’re awake early. It’s barely light.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She stretched and yawned. “I think my brain is still on US time.”
“Ah. You… ah… seem to be having rather a lot of trouble sleeping lately…”
“Some. But, hey, not so surprising. One day California, next day Cleveland, on to Boston and now London. I have time-zone confusion. Not sure I could tell you what day it is, let alone what time.”
“It has been three weeks since we left the US.”
Buffy shrugged. “My brain kinda likes California time. It’s stubborn like that. Stupid brain.”
Giles sighed, and when he went on his voice was uncertain, hesitant. “Buffy… it’s not… I mean, you aren’t…?”
She interrupted him quickly. “You know, I always kinda thought the thing about the British weather being all with the constant rain was just so much hooey.” She gestured at the rain-soaked garden. “Turns out not so much.”
“Ah, yes, well, we do probably have more than our fair share. Atlantic depressions, you know.”
“Can an ocean be depressed?”
“It’s actually rather fascinating.” Giles settled comfortably in a baggy wicker chair and polished his glasses enthusiastically. “It’s all down to warm, tropical air and cold, polar air meeting over the Atlantic, you see - the warm air pushing north and the cold air pushing south. You end up with… with a low pressure system and… and then warm and cold fronts and they sweep in from the west bringing with them unsettled weather and… and a very distinctive weather pattern that… is…” his voice tailed away in the face of Buffy’s raised eyebrow. “Um… well… it rains,” he summarised. “Quite a bit.”
“You don’t say.”
“But… no matter. A little rain won’t hurt our plans.”
“There are plans? Plans are never to the good.” Buffy peered at him suspiciously.
“I thought perhaps you’d like to come with me to the Council this afternoon. We would be grateful for your input into the designs for the new training rooms, and really, it’s probably about time you met the new Watchers…”
She turned her face away and looked back out over the garden. “Not today, Giles, huh?”
“But…”
“Another day,” she said, her voice emotionless.
There was a silence. Buffy could almost hear Giles summoning the words, drawing on the courage to speak. Just like all the others, all of them so afraid of hurting her, of saying the wrong thing, of asking the wrong question, of being proved right. So rather than risk that, they said nothing – at least, to her. “Buffy, we’re rather worried about you,” he went on eventually. “All of us. You seem very… well… we were worried that you may be… ah…that maybe…”
“I’m not depressed.” She knew what they were saying. But she didn’t do depressed. Slayers didn’t do depressed…
“No…no, of course, I’m not… But, you know, it’s perfectly understandable that you may be feeling a little… well, down maybe. You... you’ve lost your home, and… and then the changes, the upheaval… I… we can’t begin to understand how it must feel to suddenly not be the only… I mean, all the new slayers… And then there’s… well, there’s…”
“Spike. Then there’s Spike. You can say his name.”
“Yes. I understand, Buffy, really I do. You miss him, naturally…”
“You don’t,” she interrupted him, shaking her head wearily. “You don’t understand. You never have and you can’t now. And that’s OK. I'm only just beginning to understand, myself.” She looked up at him earnestly. “I’m not depressed, Giles. I know that’s what you all think, but I’m not. A lot’s gone down…” she gave a short laugh at Giles’ wry expression. “Go me with the understatement, huh?” She shook her head. “I’m just… tired, you know? Really, really tired.” Some days, bone-achingly, mind-numbingly, stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off tired. “And tired people just don’t want to be designing training rooms and meeting new people who might not understand why other people are less than full of the joys of slayerness right now. That’s all.”
“Yes… yes, of course.” Giles was clearly less than happy with her answer. “But you know, if you need to talk, any of us…”
“I will.” Buffy smiled at him gratefully. “Honest – soon as I have something worth the saying.” She looked up as a gust of wind drove a sudden cloud of browning leaves against the windows. “So – is it gonna rain all day?” She raised an eyebrow at Giles. “Because those rubber galoshes are not a good look on me.”
“No.” Giles looked at her intently. “Depressions pass, Buffy. The weather changes.”
“And then?” She looked away.
“The depression moves on, the rain stops and the skies clear.”
“And all’s warm and sunny, right?” She trailed her finger through the condensation on the window, drew swirls and patterns that bled water.
“Actually, no. It’s bright, but… colder.”
“Well, there you go,” she said softly. She gave a small shake of her head then looked over at him with a bright smile. “You know what would help right now? Tea. Good, strong British tea.”
“Tea? Really?” Giles looked surprised.
“Sure! It always makes things better. I know. I’ve been watching Eastenders.”
“Tea. Yes, good idea. And maybe some toast?” He got to his feet, clearly grateful for her request, eager to help.
“Tea and toast. Just the ticket. Giles…” she called after him as he headed for the door. He stopped and turned back to her. “I’m OK. Really.”
“You know, it’s just because we care…”
“I know.” She felt the prick of tears and swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Really I do. And it’ll be fine. It’s been a long few months and I just need rest is all. I’ll be back to peachy with a side order of keen quicker than… well, something real quick. You’ll see.”
She wasn’t sure if what she saw in his answering smile was hope or belief. When he’d gone she let her own smile fade. She blinked back the tears and rubbed her eyes tiredly, turned to stare out into the rain-wet garden, pulled the blanket tighter around herself and watched the rain fall.
Spike
The barman recognised him for what he was the minute he entered the room; if nothing else, the weeks he’d spent working with his cousin Willy down in the late lamented Sunnydale a few years back had taught him the signs. All hard, bad boy swagger and sneer, he’d the pale otherworldliness and just-under-the-skin hunger of the vampire – there was no mistaking it. Although, truth to tell, this one was different. He had an animal grace, a face that was staggeringly beautiful despite the cuts and bruises that marred it, but mostly it was a flash of something in ice-blue eyes that hinted at more. But – whatever else, he was a vampire, and the barman was sure as hell going to be careful, pretty or not. Shame though – he eyed the stranger’s lean form appreciatively – just his type on the whole. But he was kind of attached to his blood.
He asked for a bottle and the barman brought it to him as he settled at the end of the bar, received a smile that almost made him forget his pledge to be careful. Man, that was one pretty face, beat up or not, with eyes to lose yourself in and a mouth that was just made for sin. But it was the air of hidden hurts and buried bruises that really caught his interest. God help him but he had a real soft spot for a man with a past, and something told him this one had a past unlike any other. So, despite himself, it was the lean blond who held his eye and his attention at the bar that night.
At first the vampire had been full of a hard glee, a clear determination to get heavily drunk and enjoy every second of the journey to oblivion. He’d drunk Jack Daniels neat from the strange, jewel-bedecked gold cup he’d brought with him, drunk it as if he’d been starved of alcohol for years. Any other customer and the barman would have long since stopped serving, sent him on his way with a recommendation to find a cab home but – vampires held their liquor better, and this one better than most.
The barman had watched in amusement as various of his customers, male and female, sidled up to the stranger, some bold, some less so, and tried to make conversation. Some of them the vamp had shared drinks with, but none of them held his attention for long. One or two less sensitive sorts persevered despite the vampire’s obvious and rapid fading of interest – most got the uncomfortable message soon enough and left him alone. There was a moment with the pretty blonde woman when the barman thought that his vampire (funny how quickly he’d become ‘his vampire’) might just have been a little tempted, might just have taken up the clear invitation to that slim, lithe body. But the spark of interest in those blue eyes had faded suddenly and the girl had beaten a disappointed retreat. The barman felt remarkably happy about that.
As the night went on and the bar and the bottle emptied, eventually it was just the two of them, the vampire slipping from a determinedly cheerful pursuit of alcohol-driven oblivion to a morose silence and long, still moments staring at the strange cup.
The barman stood at the other end of the bar, polishing glasses and watching him. He should have shut up shop hours ago, but he didn’t want to let this one go, fascinated by the emotions he saw playing out on the vampire’s face as he drank. Fascinated largely because – well, in his experience, vampires had a limited range of emotions, largely revolving around anger, lust, envy, greed… all the usual Seven Deadlies, upfront and in your face. This one, however – this one ran deep.
The vampire sighed and finally looked up and met his eye. “So – you gonna come have a drink or what?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The barman tried for casualness, but felt he’d probably missed by a mile. He picked a glass, poured himself a whiskey from the bottle of Jack’s and tipped it toward the gold cup in the vampire’s hand. “That’s unusual. Looks old.”
The vampire looked at the cup and snorted. “Yeah. Does, doesn’t it? But then – things aren’t always what they seem,” he looked into the barman’s eyes, “are they?”
“Ummm… no…” the barman felt a surge of something that felt remarkably like fear. He took a nervous swallow from his glass. What was it he’d promised himself about being careful?
The vampire looked away and helped himself to a cigarette from a pack on the bar. “Got a light, mate?” he raised an eyebrow. The barman’s hand shook slightly as he flipped his lighter and held the flame to the end of the cigarette between the vampire’s lips. He smirked then drew a deep lungful of smoke, letting it out through clenched teeth. “Been a while. Almost forgotten how these things taste.”
“Gave them up for your health, did you?” The barman gave him a knowing smile.
“Yeah. S’right. Girl didn’t like ‘em.” He looked down at the glowing tip of the cigarette. “Definitely not good for the health to do somethin’ the girl didn’t like.” He stubbed the cigarette out.
“Things we do for love, huh?” the barman laughed nervously.
The vampire snorted. “Love.” There was a long silence, then he spoke without looking up. “D’you sometimes wonder what’s the point of it all, mate? What the fuck you’re supposed to do? You try to put it right, y’know? Try to fit, try to be a good man so that she…” He paused, the muscles of his jaw clenched. “Play the hero, ‘cos that’s what looks to be the right thing. But everythin’ you touch – every soddin’ thing – you balls up. Or someone else balls it up it for you. An’ there’s sod all point in lookin’ to the future ‘cos someone will sure as hell fuck with that, too.” He took a long swallow from his whiskey, drew air he didn’t need hard through his teeth in a soft hiss, released it in a long sigh. “Ever thought perhaps you’d be better off shuffling off this mortal…” he snorted “immortal coil? Wouldn’t take much. Little bit o’wood an’… poof. Can do it now, too – solid through.” A wince of pain and then another heavy swallow of neat liquor. “Ever thought how much easier it would be not to have to deal with all this complete and utter bollocks?” He looked up and the barman flinched at the hurt in those, blue, blue eyes. “Ever thought about endin’ it all?” The barman swallowed hard, forgot to breathe in the intensity of his gaze. Then the vampire blinked and the shutters came down, shielded the passion behind a careful blankness. “Nah.” He stood up and threw a handful of notes onto the bar. “Me neither.”
He crossed the room with an unconscious grace half hidden by a conscious swagger that not even two bottles of Jack’s and the weight of the world could blunt. The barman found himself hoping that the stranger would stop, turn back. He didn’t. As the door closed behind him, the barman picked up the heavily bejewelled cup discarded on the bar. He frowned at it for a long moment lost in the echoes of the vampire’s words, then raised it in salute and drank it dry.
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